


A Day in the Life

by kausingkayn



Series: Behind Blue Eyes (Occupation: Serial Killer) [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kausingkayn/pseuds/kausingkayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Ianto Jones: journalist, boyfriend, serial killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and have it up on LJ, but decided to move it over here to. This is the first installment of the series. Hope you enjoy.

6:30.  
  
The old fashioned bedside clock proclaimed those three numbers almost silently, the only sound emanating from the wooden frame the soft tick-tick-tick of the second hand as it lazily made it’s patrol around it’s circular path. Ianto had opened his eyes at the exact moment that the minute hand lined up with the gothic-scripted 6, hiding the hour hand perfectly from view. He lied there in bed, like he did every morning, his solemn eyes watching the second hand as it made a complete circuit. It was in these sixty seconds that he would prepare himself for the day ahead. His breathing would remain shallow, as if he still occupied a light slumber. His eyes would blink every four seconds on the dot, keeping his eyes moist as they followed the ticking hand. His mind would wake up, cataloging everything that had happened the day before, and listing the things that would come in the next twenty-four hours in order of importance, urgency, and how they would most likely be done.  
  
When the second hand once again passed over the twelve, and the minute hand was no longer so perfectly aligned, Ianto’s gaze would wander. He would move from lying on his side to lying on his back, staring at the ceiling for a measured amount of seconds. Every day, this number would be different, yet it would follow a distinct pattern. The day before he had counted to fifty-eight before moving again. Today, the number would be ten counts less. The next day, fifteen counts more.  
  
Forty-eight seconds passed in near silence, his mind still working – counting. When the predetermined time was over – not one second more or less – Ianto would once again turn, this time from his back to his other side. It was then that he would stare at the other person occupying his bed.  
  
Ianto would gaze at the man who was always still sleeping. He would start first at his hair and wonder how, even after six and a half (and sometimes less) hours of troubled sleep, it still managed to look so perfectly made up. Then his eyes would travel a few inches down to the man’s face. It was here that Ianto spent most of his time. He would trace the man’s eyebrows, then linger over his eyes, which always fluttered under the eyelids. He would move to the nose next, and follow that line down to the lips. Ianto would mentally dissect those lips, remembering the feeling of them pressed against his own, the difference between light, chaste kisses and passionate, needing ones. It was here that his breathing would hitch, and his heart would pump out an irregular beat for the length of two point five seconds. Because Ianto understood the scientific properties behind these occurrences. He could explain to you the anatomical procedures that were taking place inside of ones body when it was happening. But in these few moments every morning, Ianto could never figure out what started them.  
  
The chin was next. Starting at the perfect cleft, then tracing the jaw line backwards – left, then the right. He would stop there, and go no further down.  
  
The whole ritual always took exactly 296 seconds.  
  
Then Ianto would gently roll back over and slide from the bed, his feet first to slide out from under the duvet and land on the ground – left foot, then the right. He would pull himself to a sitting position, and use his arm to push himself off of the bed in order to create the smallest amount of movement on the large, soft bed so not to wake the other man. It wasn’t time for him to wake up yet.  
  
Ianto would stand at the bedside and allow himself fifteen minutes to stretch, his arms reaching toward the ceiling above him and his toes curling into the soft rug underneath. He would stifle a yawn, then trod – very much awake – into the bathroom. He would pull off his boxers – he always wore boxers to bed, and just boxers. He would never put on a shirt, never leave on a piece of jewelry or a forgotten sock. Just boxers – and relieve himself. A quick shower, mentally timed at exactly three minutes twenty-five seconds, and a towel to the hair. Ianto had found that ten seconds didn’t get enough of the moisture out of his hair, and left a small damp spot on his collar when he went to get dressed. Fifteen seconds was too long, and his hair wouldn’t listen to a thing that he said, nor any product that he mixed in it in attempt to tame it. Thirteen seconds, however, was perfect.  
  
He’d clear off the mirror with his now damp towel, and pull on the edge of the glass pane in order to reach the treasures that lay behind it. One squirt of his unscented men’s hair gel, six seconds of running his hand through his hair. Another squirt, this time of shaving cream, also unscented. The water would run for a full minute and a half as Ianto focused solely on shaving, desperately needing for the razor to come away clean with every swipe, knowing that his plans would be foiled if he were to draw blood. He let out a small sigh of relief as he finished the job without causing harm on both his face and his plans.  
  
Half a pump of after-shave, five seconds added on in case anything ran over or he needed to amend his schedule. Then, back into the bedroom.  
  
He’d cross the threshold, aiming for the closet. He would glance at his lover as he passed, the man still sleeping, oblivious to the morning ritual. Ianto would slide open the door carefully, quietly. His eyes would dart to the corner of the floor, where, if one were to stare at it long enough, it would be realized that the carpet didn’t flush with the wooden baseboard. Hid eyes would only flicker, and his mind wouldn’t dwell on the fact. That came later in his routine, and Ianto never broke his routine.  
  
He’d grab the clothes that were in the front of the rack – he’d place his outfits that had just been cleaned in the back in order to rotate his wardrobe and make it easier in the morning to choose what to wear. Personally, Ianto wasn’t too picky in his choice of clothing, but every other person on the planet was, and that made it important.  
  
Today it was a deep red dress shirt with long sleeves and a crisp collar, paired with black jeans and matching thick belt. All of his clothes were like this – his top half professional, his bottom half casual. He would then take only half a second to glance at the other side of the closet. Rows of suits, of all different colors and fashions, all accompanied with ties. Ianto felt his fingers twitch, and his hands curled unconsciously around his hanger. His heartbeat increased by several beats, and his breath quickened. Today was one of those days that he would need those extra seconds he hadn’t used in the bathroom.  
  
Five seconds he would take then to calm himself down. He turned away from the suits, away from the ties, and stare at his clothes. His normal, bland clothes. And he would uncurl his fingers, breathe normal again, and his heartbeat would slow back down.  
  
But today, he couldn’t get rid of the twitching.  
  
Ianto exited the closet and went once more to the bedroom, where he would lay his clothes on his side of the bed and silently open the top drawer in his bedside table, where he would grab a pair of boxers and set them, still folded, next to the other articles of clothing. He would then walk to the floor-length mirror that had been installed only a year ago.  
  
Twenty seconds. Ianto would spend twenty seconds in front of the bedroom mirror, staring at himself. His pale skin gave him an almost unhealthy glow, which contrasted greatly with the rest of his body. His arms were small, but not anywhere near lanky or skinny. They were layered with muscle, toned and unsubtle only when laid bare. His legs were the same way, strong and lean from years of discipline and exercise. His stomach was flat and had abs carved out of the skin, hard and dangerous. No abrasions, no marks. His skin was flawless.  
  
Then he turned back to his bed and grabbed the boxers, sliding them up over his powerful legs. Next came the shirt, hiding the solid stomach and torso from view. His pants came next, covering the rest of his physique and transforming him into the pale, skinny welsh boy that he played every day.  
  
It was time for the kitchen now. Another perfectly measured segment of Ianto’s morning. He’d open the fridge and withdraw specific items – three eggs, a carton of milk, butter, and grape jelly. Three seconds. He’d turn on the stove and take out the frying pan. Silverware would come out – a knife, two forks, and a spoon. The spoon would be used once, to take a carefully measured amount of butter and fling it into the pan. The spoon would be retired into the sink. Ianto would mentally keep the time that it took for the butter to sizzle. This was a fascinating part of the day. It didn’t seem to matter that he let the stove on for the exact amount of time every morning before subjecting the butter to the heat, nor that he used the exact same amount of butter. The time it took for it to melt was never the same two consecutive mornings in a row. Ianto didn’t understand how he couldn’t control something as simple as melting butter. At first it had made him angry, but over time he learned to turn that anger into something else, and now it only puzzled him.  
  
Then the eggs cracked onto the pan, two of which were mixed to together, the third partitioned by itself. He opened the drawer next to the stove and brought out a bagel, which he placed in the toaster for the pre-set amount of time.  
  
The bagel dinged the exact moment that Ianto was turning off the stove. Two plates came out of the cupboard. The first became home to the single egg, which was placed on top of the bagel and covered in one squeeze of grape jelly. The second housed the two scrambled eggs. Each plate got it’s own fork, the bagel getting a knife. The two plates were placed on the dinner table – the bagel to the right of the scrambled eggs.  
  
Three minutes.  
  
Then came to unpredictable portion of the morning routine – coffee making. Sometimes, it would just take the sound of the coffee grinds bag being opened to awaken the second member of the house from his slumber. Other times, he wouldn’t emerge from the bedroom until the cups were poured and placed next to their consecutive plates. Some mornings, Ianto would get a hug and kiss first, other times the coffee was the first thing to be touched. This was the dangerous part of the morning ritual, and the part that made Ianto so uncomfortable. He would write down exactly what happened, with the mental times he had calculated and everything. He would spend hours going over the data, trying desperately to find a pattern – needing to figure out some way to predict it, to control it.  
  
Today was another surprise. It wasn’t until the sound of the liquid gold hitting the bottom of the coffee cup that the other male joined Ianto in the kitchen.  
  
Ianto heard his footsteps, but chose not to turn, instead focusing on the cup of steaming hot coffee. He had ten more seconds to complete the task, and didn’t need something or someone interrupting him. Especially not today.  
  
“Mornin’ Yan.” He said as Ianto turned around, coffee in hand.  
  
“Good morning Jack.” He replied, walking toward the man, outreaching his arm, and handing the coffee to him. Ianto smiled, because it was a custom to smile when someone told you good morning, and he had been doing it every day since he had known Jack Harkness. It was a constant, something that he could control every morning to take off the uncomfortable ness a little. Because Ianto couldn’t help it. Jack Harkness was unpredictable and random and chaotic.  
  
Thirty seconds.

Jack’s hand reached out to take the cup, his fingers brushing over Ianto’s as he did it. The Welshman felt a skip in his heartbeat, and – like every morning, wondered why. Then Jack withdrew, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a long, slow sip. This Ianto timed every morning, how long it would take Jack to complete his first intake of caffeine. Today, it was three seconds.  
  
Jack moaned into the cup, a sound that caused goose bumps to raise on Ianto’s neck. He raised his eyebrow to silently berate the man. He wasn’t caught unawares as Jack placed the cup on the counter and reached out, pulling Ianto close, kissing him. It was the one thing that Ianto would always count on – the one thing that was constant with a man who was so chaotic. He needed contact. He touched people, and liked to be touched. A hand on the shoulder while talking, a hug instead of a nod. A kiss every morning. It was something that Ianto could measure, something he could time. It calmed him.  
  
Then Jack withdrew, a large smile on his face as his eyes swept down then back up, evaluating Ianto. “Red is definitely your color.” He said, then grabbed his coffee before retreating back into the bedroom.  
  
Ianto watched him go, timing how long it would take Jack to walk the short distance from the kitchen back to the bedroom. His eyes traveled past the perfect hair, past the tan skin with interrupted patterns and scars, past his bare ass, which was slightly paler than the rest of his body. He stopped at the legs. First the left one, which was strong and muscular and whole. Then the right one, which was skinny and weak and knotted flesh. Ianto winced.  
  
Ten seconds.  
  
Ianto turns to the table, the unpredictable, immeasurable part of the day over. Jack would take fifteen minutes to get ready, give or take a few seconds. By then, Ianto would be finished with his breakfast, finished cleaning up the kitchen, and ready to go to work.  
  
So he sits down and eats his eggs, slowly methodically, making sure to chew his food twenty times before swallowing – not because it’s what doctors say you should do, but because he found that, with this particular amount of nutrients, twenty seconds per bite would put him in line with Jack’s morning ritual – if the man had one. Three years, and Ianto still wasn’t sure.  
  
Maybe that’s why they were together.  
  
He pondered that thought while chewing. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, swallow. He finished and stood up, taking his plate to the sink and rinsing it, sticking it in the dishwasher. It would need run the next morning, if everything went according to plan – which it would, if he had any say in it.  
  
Then he made another batch of coffee just for Jack, because he didn’t drink coffee. Ianto didn’t like eating or drinking anything that could inebriate him, or alter the course of his mind. He didn’t think that the short-term pleasures were good enough to exchange for the long-term control over his mind. So instead of coffee, Ianto drank cranberry juice.  
  
Fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds.  
  
Jack came back out, fully dressed, freshly showered, and in need of more coffee. Ianto poured it, then watched with calculating eyes as he ate, sipping his almost-empty glass of cranberry juice to give the illusion of being occupied.  
  
There was no figuring out how long the man would take to eat, either. It was frustrating, being unable to classify Jack by numbers that never changed. Ianto didn’t think he would be able to do it, live life like that, never knowing how much time was spent, or how much would be left. He couldn’t life without a schedule, without a plan.  
  
Jack had decided to put on a light blue shirt with a grey suit. It was tailored and fit him perfectly. He had also put on a navy blue tie to add a little more color. Jack liked lots of colors, and loved finding random colors that meshed together so perfectly. He would just randomly choose and outfit for the day, searching around until something matched. It made Ianto shudder just to think of it.  
  
Eight minutes.  
  
He finished his juice right when Jack finished his breakfast, and timed it perfectly so that they would have to meet at the sink. The dishes were set down, and attentions were turned to each other.  
  
“Easy day today, I hope.” Jack said, sliding his hands around Ianto’s waist. The Welshman closed his eyes for a second to get used to the touch, then opened them, smiling, blinking every four seconds. “Closing in on our kidnapper today. Hopefully, I’ll get to watch the interrogation before the day is out.”  
  
“Hope so, you’ve been going on about this case for days.” Ianto mumbled, because he knew that he needed to say something, needed to change this moment from a monologue to a conversation. And because he did pay attention to Jack, and knew that was what he was expecting to hear.  
  
He chuckled, and Ianto knew he said the right thing. He always said the right thing. It was a short laugh, lasted one and a half seconds. “I just…I hear so many people explain why they do things like that. What drives them to kill, to hurt people? I understand it, on a professional level, but I just can’t understand. You know.”  
  
“Yeah.” Ianto muttered. And he did. He knew what it felt like, to understand why something happens, in a detached, scientifical way, but to be unable to personally, emotionally register with it. To truly understand.  
  
He leaned forward and kissed him them, because it was what Jack needed. Ianto’s hands slowly moved up his chest, his fingers brushing the edge of the silk tie that hung around Jack’s neck. His fingers started to twitch again, and Ianto broke away, hiding his tremor from the man who was holding him. He told himself to stop, to break away, to tell him to ‘have a good day’ and then lock the door on his way out. He commanded his fingers to listen to him.  
  
They didn’t.  
  
They inched higher on the tie, closer to Jack’s neck. His heart rate elevated, his breathing was pounding in his ears. The world swam. Closer, closer he inched. There, the feeling of the knot under his fingers. The primal urge in his brain, screaming for him to tighten it, to squeeze. The need that filled his body, to feel Jack struggle for breath under his grasp, to claw at him, to choke. To hang by the silk thread that wrapped itself around his neck every fucking morning.  
  
Instead, Ianto straightened the knot and gave Jack one last kiss, forcing out a smile and withdrawing his hands, hiding them behind his back to hide how much they were shaking.  
  
The whole episode lasted seven seconds.  
  
“Make him pay.” Ianto said, because it was ironically appropriate.  
  
“Always.” Jack said with a smile and a wink. Then he was turning away, limping toward the door, stopping long enough to grab his briefcase, but not long enough to get the cane that was sitting by the door, because he was too proud to use it. Then the door swung open, and shut again, and Ianto was alone.  
  
He hit the floor the same exact time that the door had swung shut. He clasped his hands together, desperate to make them stop shaking. He clenched his teeth until they hurt, running the numbers he had collected that morning through his head, slowly his heartbeat, breathing, shaking.  
  
Thirteen seconds later, he opened his eyes and stood up. He went to the bedroom, ignoring the fact that the bed was unmade, and made a beeline for the closet. He fell to his knees, his fingers gently probing the corner of the rug that wasn’t quite right. He found the edge and pulled it up, uncovering a secret panel. He opened it and reached inside, withdrawing a thick manila folder. Sitting cross-legged on floor, he flipped to the first page, and looked at the face that stared back. His fingers slowly slid across the picture, and the first genuine smile that morning grew on his face.  
  
It was time.

 

xXx

 

Ianto walked into the front door of the office building for the ‘Cardiff Gazette.’ It took him thirty steps to get to the elevator after having to navigate around all of the desks and people in the way. Half a second to press the button for the third floor, and thirty seconds for the lift to get him there. Another twenty steps, including a pause between the thirteenth and fourteenth to saw hello to another editor, and he was in his office. Ten seconds to set down his files and swivel his chair around to face his computer. Fifty seconds for it to boot up, and five to find the correct file and open it.  
  
He was one of the few with an actual office and plush chair for the newspaper, the only one who actually had to work to get the position. He was the main editor for the newspaper. The manager had been surprised at how unbiased and factual he was with everything. That, and the fact that everything was always turned in exactly on time only helped the matter. Facts, Ianto could deal with. Deadlines were heaven, and remaining unbiased was like counting. He didn’t have any real opinions on anything that was placed in the paper, so he didn’t have a problem with a clash of interest. For Ianto, it was the perfect day job.  
  
“Oi, Jones.” A voice said, and Ianto looked up from his laptop. Owen Harper stood there, and unlit cigarette in his mouth. He leaned on the threshold of the door, with a cocky look on his face. Ianto took a moment to look him over, mentally counting how long he could last before saying everything. It was another small morning ritual, something that Ianto could be positive would happen every day. The longest he had lasted was a minute and thirty seconds. At about fifteen seconds, Ianto raised a quizzical eyebrow, and then focused back on his computer. A small smile tugged at the corner of his face, but he managed to subdue it.  
  
“You have that article? It’s due tonight, no later than ten. Boss needs it for tomorrow, an’ if he don’t get it, I’m blaming the queer. That’s you.” Owen said snarkily, laughing a little after delivering the line. He leaned there, on Ianto’s door frame, that damn cigarette dangling from his mouth as if it meant to make him look daring and dangerous. His brown cargo pants clashed severely with the blue pinstriped shirt that was buttoned, but untucked. But the thing about Owen’s appearance that drew Ianto in was the tie. It was brown, and just hanging there, loosely around his neck. It was begging him to be pulled, to be tightened, and Ianto never wanted anything more than the sound of Owen’s choked screams during that moment. His fingers started to twitch and he had to move them to the edge of his desk. His fingers squeezed the wood until his knuckles turned white. Inside, his mind was fighting with his body, needing to strangle the annoying bastard that was sitting there, insulting him, but knowing that if he did, he would have to start running and never look back. And Ianto knew that he had higher class than that – that he was better, more disciplined.  
  
So instead, his face gave a weak smile and he rolled his eyes, as if the words that had just been given to him was a normal thing in his life. He hid it so well, he was sure that Owen couldn’t see the utter hatred and anger boiling right under his eyes.  
  
Owen left then, back off to his desk to torment some other overworked soul – maybe grope a few of the woman reporters. He would never know how close he had come to becoming as dead as that cigarette between his fishy lips.  
  
Two minutes.  
  
Ianto calmed down, counting backwards from twenty, because that was the maximum amount of time that he could give himself. He knew that he was overdue, that what he was about to do that night should have been done a while ago. Normally, Owen’s snide remarks just made his skin crawl. He knew that normal guys would have laughed and joked back, and that if he had been ‘just a normal guy’ then Owen would more than likely be his best friend. But as it was, Ianto was so much better than normal, and didn’t have anymore room in his busy schedule for another man.  
  
He was calm now, and glanced down ad his hands. His fingernails had dug into the soft wood of the desk, and the skin that was connected to his fingernails was torn and bleeding. Cursing softly, he dislodged his fingers from his desk and grabbed a tissue, swiftly cleaning up the mess. He licked his fingers to clean off the small trickles of blood, his eyes rolling into the back of his head with pleasure from the metallic taste. Then he got back to work. That article that Owen had been talking about was his own, and had been given to Ianto the day before. It was due that night, but he had taken the initiative and finished it early. Of course, he wouldn’t email it off until ten that night – it would give him the grounds for the alibi he would need.  
  
It took him five hours, thirty-five minutes, and twelve seconds (not including the forty five minutes and twenty one seconds he spent as his lunch break) to go through his email and edit a few of the smaller, more minor articles that crossed his desk that day. He finished his work – as always – ahead of anyone else in the office. It was repetitive work and was easy to due. Everything had a rhythm – most importantly, he could count out that rhythm.  
  
His work for the newspaper finished, Ianto then moved on to the most important item of the day. He had been saving it for last, like the candy that a child would receive after completing all his chores. And oh, this was some candy.  
  
He got up to close his office door (five steps) then sat back down. Everyone knew that when the editor’s door was closed, he was working on something very important, and you only bother him personally if it is life or death, and even then you knock. He sat back down, and took out his satchel that he had taken with him to work. Most everyone who worked at the Cardiff Gazette owned something similar – something to carry around all his or her papers in. For Ianto, it ended up being quite convenient.  
  
His fingers quickly moved past all of his work folders, past the letters, the transcripts of interviews, even his diary that he carried around. He felt out the hidden zipper that had been sewn into the side, and he opened it with a quick jerk. He reached inside, and withdrew a single file. Clearing space on his desk, he opened it and spread the papers out. The file was a thick one, but everything inside was in perfect order.  
  
Birth record, parents, homes lived in, daily schedule, gym membership, social security number, medical history, cat’s identification number, license plate and registration, college transcript, job application, job history. It didn’t stop there. He had pictures, and transcripts of telephone calls, newspaper clippings about her court cases.  
  
In front of him, Ianto had a whole person’s life. One that was about to end.  
  
He had been planning this for months. It was helpful, working for a newspaper. As long as you would run a story that pertained to the details in question, no one would care to double check if the name that was given was real, or if that little information about the trip to the veterinarians office was really vital to the article. He knew her hobbies, her habits, the fact that she twists the end of her hair while listening to the prosecution deliver their cross-examination if she didn’t like the questions they were asking. Ianto Jones knew this woman better than she did.  
  
He spent exactly two hours, twenty-three minutes, and fifty-nine seconds reviewing the information that he already knew by heart. He was cleaning up as the large clock on his desktop struck five.  
  
He carefully replaced all of the information back in the folder, exactly in the order that he had taken it out. He hide it once again, and tidied up his desk – he hated it when things were out of place. Then he stood up, turned off everything in his office, and left. Because leaving at five o’clock was what everyone else did.  
  
He got outside and walked around to his car, located on the first floor of the parking garage. He pulled out his cell phone while he walked – because Ianto Jones was nothing if not efficient.  
  
“Hey! Wasn’t expecting this.” Came the voice form the other end of the line. Ianto felt the tips of his mouth turn upwards at the sound of Jack’s voice, and this time he didn’t try and stop it.  
  
“Just finished at work, wondering when you’d be home.” Ianto said, trying to sound nonchalant. He needed, by his calculations, about five hours to be able to completely finish the job. He already had something prepared to keep Jack away from the house, but only wanted to use it as a last resort. Ianto knew that if they caught the kidnapper that Jack had been after these past few days, then the man would stay at the station until everything was wrapped up, because he hated leaving a case that wasn’t yet closed. According to the information that Jack had given him, and the extra tidbits that Ianto himself was able to find, they wouldn’t have brought him into custody until a few hours ago at the soonest. Knowing law enforcement, and going on the data that Ianto had collected in the past three years, it would take anywhere from four to six hours to process, interview, and collect all the evidence that they needed in order to take him to court.  
  
“Not for a while, I’m afraid. They’re just bringing him in now – was at the house we thought, but had to get a warrant. Remind me not to vote for our judge again, ok?” He drifted off, then continued. “It’ll be a few more hours yet, they want me to stay for the interrogation…”  
  
“…and you don’t like to leave a case unsolved. I know, it’s ok. I’m going to the gym, then I’ll be home.” Ianto inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He had been right – although that part he wasn’t really surprised about.  
  
They exchanged a few more words, and then Jack had to go. As soon as the call was terminated, Ianto glanced at the timer before it blinked off the screen. Their whole conversation lasted ten minutes, five seconds. He mentally cataloged that number, and a few moments later he was at his car.  
  
His satchel went into the back, and in exchange he brought out a large duffel bag. Without bothering to check inside, Ianto flung it in the front seat, then walked around to the driver’s side. Before pulling out of his parking spot, he made sure to buckle in.  
  
Safety first.

 

xXx

 

Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty.  
  
Ianto set the weights down and took a moment to steady his breathing before grabbing his timesheet and writing down his results. He loved the “track your progress” feature that this gym offered members. He had been steadily increasing over the past two years that he had used this particular gym. It was nice, to have a format laid out for you instead of having to take the time to make one yourself. He wrote down the numbers, then putting the clipboard under his arm, moved on to his next machine.  
  
He had planned it so that for the first hour of his exercises, he would use the back of the gym, and the machines that were out of view of the front windows. Then, when the window of time that his victim would be walking past the front of the gym on the way to her car, Ianto would have by then moved to the front, where he could continue his tri-weekly routine, and keep vigil all the same.  
  
He had been there for that allotted hour, although it was more like one hour, two minutes, thirty-six seconds and counting. He was drenched in sweat from his workout, but his body craved more. His white tank top was soaked; work out short a shade darker than they had been before. He stood out, his pale skin different from the fake-tans of tourists and local boys. They had all laughed the first few times that Ianto had come to the gym, but were quickly put in their place. He was strong for his size.  
  
It took only twenty-five minutes for her to walk past the front doors of the gym. Her light chocolate skin a contrast against the rapidly fading sunlight. Her black hair was pulled in a bun, and her business suit was strict but colorful – a purple top that was tucked into a black pencil skirt with a matching jacket. No tie, Ianto mentally pointed out, a bit disappointed. Oh well, he brought his own.  
  
He waited until she passed by, then stood up. He had eleven minutes, give or take thirty two seconds, according to his earlier observations. She parked around the corner, and drove back by on her way home. That would give him plenty of time.  
  
Ianto headed for the showers and jumped under the stream of cold water quickly. Two minutes and fifteen seconds he gave himself – enough time to wipe away the sweat and be halfway presentable. One minutes thirty seconds to get dressed, three minutes to take one last catalog of his tools, and fifteen seconds to leave out the front of the gym.  
  
The remainder five minutes he spent walking toward where her car was. He got there just in time for her to slam the back of her car and walk around to the driver’s side. When he came into view, he opened his cell phone, turned the ringer to silent, and began to talk.  
  
“What the hell do you mean, ‘I’m busy?’ The hotel is seven miles away. Seven. I’m not walking there myself. Yeah, well, if there is one thing I’m gonna fuck tonight, it definitely isn’t you.” He hung up then, proud of his performance. He filtered a little bit of anger in that, and he thought it was acceptable. Even pausing long enough for the other end of the conversation to play out in his head. He sensed her eyes on him, and knew he had gotten her attention.  
  
“You alright?” She called out, and he turned, giving an exasperated smile.  
  
“Sorry. Word to the wise, even if he’s hot, lazy is not a good quality for a husband.” Ianto said. He noticed something leave her face, and he knew exactly what it was. The first thing women think about when talking to a male stranger in the dark is ‘rape.’ However, if that male lets slip that he’s gay – married is better – that fear goes away, back into the closet. Ianto should know, he read through all of Jack’s psychology books more than once.  
  
“Well, what hotel are you staying at?” She asked, all brisk and business like. So she had caught that part of the conversation too.  
  
“It’s the long-term suites by the harbor.” He said, pulling out his key card and handing it to her. One of the members at the newspaper had stayed there last week, and he had swiped the card from the trash. “It was supposed to be our honeymoon, but I don’t know how he’ll do it if I’m not there. Didn’t realize the buses didn’t run this late.”  
  
“London?” She asks, laughing. “I know the feeling, moved from there two years ago myself.”  
  
‘More like two years, five months, fifteen days,’ Ianto though, but he didn’t voice that out loud. “Yeah.”  
  
“Well, come on. I can give you a ride, my place is just a few miles further than the hotel.” She beckoned toward her car, and Ianto smiled, nodding and proclaiming his thanks. He got in the passengers side of the car, careful to sit his duffel bag down between his legs. The woman gave him one last smile before starting her car, and Ianto smiled back, proud of himself. He had missed his calling; he should have been an actor.  
  
Five minutes, seventeen seconds.  
  
They were only a few minutes away from the hotel when the road started to look very bleak and deserted. As soon as they entered this particular stretch of the journey, Ianto started to count down in his head. It took only sixty four seconds for the car, going at its current speed, to hit the halfway mark on this isolated drive. That was when Ianto would act. Earlier that day when he was making preparations, he stopped by the parking garage that she parked in and attached a small device to the fuel hose. It was a cheap gadget that was supposed to measure the amount of fuel that your car uses per mile. With a little tweaking, it could be tuned to a certain radio frequency and used to completely shut off the fuel supply feeding into the car if a certain number was dialed. It was amazing what a little patience and genius could achieve.  
  
There. Sixty four seconds had passed. Ianto subtly pressed the speed dial number three on his phone. One was Jack, two was work. The car drove for a few more seconds, then started to sputter. Ianto adopted his confused face.  
  
“Damn it!” She exclaimed, then quickly turned to her passenger. “I’m really sorry…” She drifted off, realizing Ianto had never given him her name.  
  
He quickly filled in the blank. “Gareth.” He gave a soft smile.  
  
“Gareth. I’m Lisa.” She remarked, laughing that it had taken so long for them to swap names. Ianto laughed along with her. “I’m really sorry, my car has been acting up for the past month and a half. Been meaning to get it looked at.”  
  
“Just never had time. I understand.” Ianto reached for the door handle. “Mind if I look? I’m a bit handy with cars.”  
  
She nodded, and he slipped out of the car and into the darkness, dragging his duffel bag with him. If she thought it was strange, she didn’t say anything. Ianto walked to the front of the car and opened the hood. Of course the car had been having troubles, he was the one who was causing it. Breaking down in the middle of nowhere was a huge sign of trouble, especially when you were driving with a stranger. But if your car had been acting up for a while, it was just an ill-timed faulty break. Nothing to worry about. Ianto covered all of his bases.  
  
He opened the hood and ducked under it. First, he grabbed his device off of the car. Then, he mentally counted to ten in his head, giving it enough time for it to look like he was trying to find something wrong. Satisfied, he dropped to his knees and opened his duffel bag. Under his gym clothes, there was a lot of supplies. Several silk ties folded neatly sat in the corner, next to a large plastic bag that was folded, and a gun that was lying on it’s side, the safety clicked on. Ianto reached for the plastic bag and pulled from under it a set of gloves. He quickly slipped then on his hands, then picked up the gun. It was modified to be a stun gun – he had bought it several years ago when he has started to have these urges. Cash, from America when he had traveled over there. Virtually untraceable.  
  
He checked one last time to make sure it was loaded, then his it behind his back, walking around the side of the car, forcing a smile.  
  
“You find what’s wrong?” Lisa asked, leaning her head out of the car door.  
  
“Yes.” Ianto replied, bringing the gun round to his front and aiming inside the car. Lisa barely had any time to scream before he fired and she slumped forward, unconscious.  
  
Ianto let out a big breath then with his gloved hand, reached into his pocket and withdrew an old fashioned stop watch that Jack had bought him for their one year anniversary of being a couple. If only he knew what it was used for.  
  
Ianto pressed the button on top. He had work to do.

 

xXx

 

He was waiting when she woke up.  
  
Her eyes fluttered beneath her eyelids before wrenching open as her mind caught up with what had happened to her. Ianto always loved watching them wake up. Sometimes it would take them a few seconds to remember what was happening. Others wake up screaming, and don’t stop until their last breath is stolen from them. Some beg, others plead, and then he would get that rare soul that didn’t do anything. They just sat there, quietly, having already accepted their fate. Sadly, Lisa wouldn’t be one of those.  
  
“Please….let me go. Let me go! Where am I!?” She started, struggling against her restraints. She wasn’t going anywhere. He had tied her to a chair, her wrists both being bound with ties, her legs tied together with the same material. There was another tie around her neck, but this one sat loose and limp. It would come in play later. They were in an old abandoned slaughter house, something that Ianto had found ironic, but it was clean, and his own little corner of the barn sterile. Outside, you could hear the squeals of pigs in the distance.  
  
He pressed the button on the top of his stopwatch and sighed, taking his time in writing down the numbers in his little black diary – his other diary. He had two, one for his boyfriends eyes to look over when Jack thought Ianto wasn’t looking, and the one in his hands now for his personal use. The book was almost full, pages covered in nothing but numbers. Numbers that were random unless you were the one who had written them. “You aren’t really anything special, are you miss Hallett.”  
  
Her eyes widened, and Ianto remembered she hadn’t told him her last name. Didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered to her.  
  
“Except, that’s what got you in this problem in the first place. You being special.” Ianto spit the words, his eyes blazed with the anger that he had to keep hidden every counted second of every damn day. Except for now. Now he could let the real him out. He could be free for these few precious hours where he could show the world – and Lisa Hallett – who he really was.  
  
He grabbed the thick file from the floor under the chair he was sitting in, and flashed through it for performance sake. “Eleven months, two weeks, five days before today, you went to court, defending a man accused of murdering two young children. Do you remember what the verdict was?”  
  
She was crying now, silent tears. She would look at him. Ianto sighed and rolled his eyes – why must they be so dramatic? He sat the file carefully down and stood up. He used his gloved hands and grabbed the sides of her face. He wrenched her face towards his. “Look. At. Me!” He screamed, then let go of her as if her skin burned through the latex.  
  
His hands shook, and he eyed the ties hungrily. Not yet, he told himself silently. Not yet.  
  
“I – I can’t r-remember.” She sobbed out. Loud tears now. Ianto took his seat again and re-opened the file. His eyes glossed as he once again skimmed over the papers.  
  
 _The young boy sat in the corner of the bench in the courtroom, trying to make himself as small as possible. The suit material was itchy, and uncomfortable. He scratched everywhere, and wanted desperately to wiggle out of it. Across the court room sitting at the defense table, his father shot him a glare and the poor young boy stopped wiggling. The cuffs felt too small, as if they were cutting off his circulation. The tie around his neck squeezed tight, and he had to gasp for air like a fish out of the water. Everything was too loud, too close, too bright. He shut his eyes tight and started to count backwards from one hundred. When he re-opened his eyes, the lights seemed dimmer, the room larger, and the voices softer. He paid attention; they were talking about him now.  
  
“Is it true, Doctor Saxon, that young Ifan Jones, has come to you with tales of his father abusing him?” The defense attorney said, pointing his question toward the psychologist on the witness stand.  
  
“Yes.” He had to lean forward to reach the microphone.  
  
“And Doctor Saxon, is it also true that Ifan is mentally unstable?” the attorney said the last two words loud and looked at the jury as he spoke. Murmurs swept through the twelve as if they were on fire.  
  
“My patient showed signs of extreme obsessive compulsive disorder, along with a minor case of schizophrenia. Through multiple tests and visits, I have come to conclude that Ifan Jones is a severely disturbed young boy, but --”  
  
“That is all, Doctor.” The attorney said before turning to the jury. “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, this case of abuse was resting solely on the confession of an eight year old child. A child who is mentally disturbed, and has had past cases of anger issues and delusions, as I have proven beforehand. The mutilations that have been caused on the boy only prove that he has been constantly hung or choked – both of which could be caused by self-infliction…”  
  
The little boy on the bench was crying now, the words hitting his ears not meaning anything, but he knew they were talking about him. They were talking about how he was a horrible little boy, and that his father had a right to do those things to him. That was what his tad had told him – he was worthless, and worthless little boys deserved to be punished. The lady across the street was wrong. Young little Ifan closed his eyes tighter and desperately repeated the numbers backwards again, this time starting at 500 and counting down by fives._  
  
“three hundred twenty, three hundred fifteen…” Ianto trailed off and opened his eyes. His cheeks felt moist, and he brought his hand up only to have it come away wet with tears. Lisa was staring at him now, confusion hinted at behind her fear. He shook his head and recalled where he had left off. Now was not the time to be remembering things best left alone.  
  
“You got him off on a plea of mental instability. He was subjected to a mental hospital for two months, then put on parole with promise of seeing a doctor.” He stared into her eyes. “A year later, he killed two more people, then committed suicide.”  
  
Ianto stood up and threw her file at her, the papers hitting her in the face before fluttering down. She began to sob again. The next time he spoke, he was yelling. “That’s what you do! You help murderers and rapists and child abusers! You let them walk the streets! You condemn fucking children!”  
  
She was shaking now, but Ianto didn’t care. He flexed his hands and grabbed the tie that was tied limply around her neck. He yanked it forward, enough to pull the chair a few inches, but not enough for it to topple over. He leaned near her face, their noses almost touching. “Twenty children, five mothers, six girlfriends, three boyfriends. Fifteen strangers. You aided in their death by allowing the murderers to go free. Now it’s your turn.”  
  
He reached into his pocket and clicked the button. The stopwatch began to count the seconds, the ticking unable to be heard over the screams of Lisa Hallett. Ianto turned her chair around and grabbed the tie. Pulling hard, he cut off her circulation. The chair pressed against his legs, abdomen, chest. He heard the scraping of Lisa’s nails as she tried to claw her way free of the chair. The silk pressed tighter, tighter, tighter across her throat. Her gasps turned to wheezing. Wheezing to shudders.  
  
 _“No, please! Tad, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!” Little Ifan Jones cried as he backed into a corner. His pants felt warm – he had wet himself. His legs betrayed him, and he fell to the floor, scrambling backwards, desperate to get away from his father, to get away from what was going to happen next. He sobbed, muttering “I’m sorry” over and over again.  
  
Still the footsteps came.  
  
“You see! Even the judge agrees with me, you little shit. Even the fucking judge. You’re worthless, Ifan. A worthless little bastard. And you know what happens to worthless little bastards?”  
  
He knew, but he was too scared to say it.  
  
His father laughed, the reached out, grabbing Ifan’s tie. He hauled the boy to his feet and dangled him by the cheap cotton, his toes only able to scratch the floor. Unable to scream for help, Ifan scratched at his neck, trying desperately to claw himself free of the unconventional noose. He clawed until his arms went numb, then he hung there for what seemed like forever. He hung there while his father laughed, while his face turned purple, then blue. The black fuzziness of death started to envelope him, and Ifan finally fell limp.  
  
A crash, and he fell to the floor, gasping for the breath that he didn’t want anymore. His throat burned, and it hurt with every intake. He screamed, but no sound came out. He shuttered and was violently sick on the floor, then shuddered some more. He curled up into a ball and sobbed at the pain until the footsteps and laughter of his father faded away.  
  
One. Two. Three…_  
  
He felt her go limp under his hands, and he released the tie. He scrambled into his pocket for the stop watch, and clicked the button, staring at the time. Fifty-six point nine five seconds. Ianto smiled and sat down, never taking his eyes away from the number. She had lasted a good amount of time.  
  
He sat there, reveling in the feeling that came after the deed had been done, after the high had passed. There was a loud panting noise, and Ianto realized that it was himself. He checked the time and smiled. He had plenty of time – all the time in the fucking world.  
  
Slowly he stood up, because the job wasn’t over yet. He untied Lisa from the chair and didn’t flinch as her body flopped unceremoniously to the ground. He collected his ties and stuffed them in the duffel bag before withdrawing a knife. First, he recorded the time on the stopwatch in his diary, then very carefully carved the numbers into her arms. Left one first, then right. Her eyes were open in a silent scream, and he closed them with his gloved hands.  
  
He tidied everything up, zipping it all into the duffel bag. “Be right back, don’t go anywhere.” He said to the quiet corpse as he exited the building. A few seconds later and he was back. He went over to her body and carefully picker her up, making sure that nowhere did his exposed skin touch her. He carried her out of the abandoned warehouse and dumped her unceremoniously into the trunk of her small car.  
  
It took two minutes for him to drive up to the next stop in their journey. Ianto pulled over on the side of the road next to a hog farm. The sounds of the animals was so loud that he had to pause at first when getting out of the car until his ears adjusted to the sound. Then, he opened the trunk and heaved her body out of the car.  
  
The walk to the hog pen took twenty-seven seconds. It took two seconds for him to haphazardly fling her body into the pen. Point twenty five seconds for the hogs to catch on to the scent of dead meat. Another second for them to swarm her body. Ianto stood there for an allotted Twenty seconds, allowing himself time to watch as they devoured her body. Before sunrise, all that would be left of defense attorney Lisa Hallett would be a few shreds of her clothing, and a couple of bones that would be left to sink under the stench of the pigs. For a second, when he watched the skin get torn off of her face, he imagined that it was actually the face of the attorney that had represented his father all those years ago. Sadly, an unhappy customer had shot her long before Ianto was able to track her down.  
  
Exactly twenty seconds passed, then Ianto turned to leave. He checked his watch. Jack would be getting home soon, and he still had to drop Lisa’s car off at the junkyard.

 

xXx

 

He made it home just in time to send off that article before the clock chimed ten. Ianto hit the send button with a smile on his face, then got back to business. He took a long shower – a full ten minutes to stand under the steaming hot water. He dried off his hair for thirteen seconds. Left the bathroom, grabbed the top pair of boxers from the drawer and slid them on over his naked skin. He went to the closet and pulled up the corner of the rug, dumping his little black diary into the hole, complete with an empty manila folder that would soon be fat with the life of his next victim. Ianto replaced the rug and glanced over at Jack’s side of the rack. His fingers no longer itched at the sight of the ties, nor did his hands want to wring someone’s neck. Just to spite them, he ran his fingers through the silk pieces of cloth and laughed at them. They didn’t own him. He controlled them.  
  
Then he walked back out into the living room and sat down in front of the television, clicking on the set exactly three minutes twelve seconds before there came the sound of a key inserting into a keyhole.  
  
When Jack walked in looking tired and drawn out, Ianto took his coat like a good boyfriend, smiled and asked how his day was. He listened as Jack went on about the kidnapper they had caught, and how the first lawyer that they tried to get in touch with wasn’t answering her phone, so they had to waste another half hour finding another one. Ianto nodded through the psychological tells that Jack picked up on while the man was in custody, and gave Jack’s bad leg a good, long massage when he complained that it was hurting again.  
  
And then, when Jack made a move to undo his tie, Ianto knocked his hands out of the way and undid it for him, his strong fingers steady as it claimed silent ownership over the thin piece of soft material. Ianto flung the thing across the room like a dead rodent, and leaned in, kissing Jack’s soft lips and running his hand up and down his firm chest.  
  
And when he pulled back from the kiss and suggested that they moved things to the bedroom, Ianto realized that he forgot to count how long it lasted.


End file.
